By Charles M. Sumid     Copyright 2025     Written 2020

She reads the room before entering.

Desk in the corner, pulled six inches back:
the exile.

Three desks clustered tight:
the power.

That one dead center, papers spread like territory:
the prince.

Empty desk by window, chair still warm:
the runner.

Different schools, same patterns.

The architecture of seventh grade never changes.
Only the faces filling the roles.

She rearranges nothing. Yet.

First she watches how they enter—
who checks the corner desk,
who won’t look,
who brings extra pencils for the one without.

By lunch she knows.

The real leader sits second row, left side.
Not the loud one.
The one others’ eyes find before laughing.

After school: she shifts five desks.

Not much. Just enough to break the spell.

Tomorrow the exile will have a neighbor.
The prince must share his borders.
The real leader gets a window seat
where her kindness can spread like light.

The permanent teacher returns Monday,
won’t understand why the class feels different.

Some chemical shift in the air.

She leaves her map in pencil on paper—
where the fault lines ran,
where the bridges could be built,
which small earthquakes prevent the big ones.

Friday afternoon.

Another school, another room to read.

She pauses at the door.

Stories written in the space between chairs.